A True Gentleman (Regency Love Book 2)

by M. A. Nichols

  Tears gathered in his eyes, coming from that small sliver of himself that still lived. The part that recognized something he desperately desired. Graham wanted to be full of life and vitality like Mrs. Russell, not this shell of a man who wallowed in his misery. He wanted to be happy again, and he knew the first step to take.

  Graham drew in a slow breath, holding it, though his right side twinged at the movement. He let it out in a one long, shaky gust. Swallowing the knot in his throat, Graham steadied himself to speak aloud the words that needed to be said.

  “I shan’t be healed.”

  Blinking frantically, he sucked in another breath through his nose; his jaw clenched until it ached. He had made enough of a spectacle of himself, he would not allow himself to do so now as he cut from himself the last remnant of hope that he had kept safely buried in his heart.

  “I shan’t return to the navy.” Speaking it made it real, bringing with it a new wave of agony. His lungs hitched, and there was nothing more to be done about the tears gathering in his eyes.

  “This is my new life.” The words were jagged and broken, but they came. Graham covered his eyes, his body shaking, and he allowed the emotions to swallow him whole. Embracing it and the ensuing tears, the sorrow filled him, washing over him. And yet, he did not drown.

  It took several long minutes before Graham regained control of himself. His face was flush, his eyes burned, and he had not a single tear left in him, yet as he lay there, utterly spent, something lingered in his heart. A glimmer of something good. Not happy or contented, but welcome all the same. Graham lay there in silent contemplation as he sifted through the emotion.

  Acceptance.

  It made no sense that it should lift his soul. His drive to return to the sea had been a raging fire, carrying him through the long months of pain. Yet, now that it was gone, he was not left with the dark despair he had expected to find. No, it was as though a crippling weight had been lifted, leaving his heart lighter and freer. It did not paint his life in rosy hues and make him want to leap from his bed and dance off into the sunset, but it gave him peace. Calm.

  A year of fighting, and he was done. There was nothing left to give, nothing left to do. This was his life. And that frantic desperation, which had been his constant companion these last months, was gone.

  Mrs. Russell’s words came to his mind. Graham was not alert enough to remember the exact wording, but he remembered the spirit of it. And she had been right. Accepting his lot brought a modicum of relief. A sense of ease, even. Facing the stark truth was not a happy thing, but it was better than hiding from it and allowing it to dictate his life. A lingering sadness still clung to his soul, but that all-consuming panic was gone. He could face this challenge head-on rather than running from it like the coward he had been.

  And that left Graham wondering if Mrs. Russell had not been right about other things. The good among the bad. She had chastised him about that enough times that even his fever-addled brain could hear her voice clearly. It was easy to see all the bad that came from this change in his life, but Graham wondered if there were any good in it. Lying there for minutes on end, his mind wouldn’t stray from the dark reality of what this would mean for him.

  A cripple. Though Graham had not spent much time among society, he knew enough to know that it made him an outcast. Perhaps people would not openly snub him, but having such a defect made others uncomfortable, and when faced with discomfort, most tend to look away or stare in horror. Neither of which was appealing. Not that he truly cared about their reactions.

  Graham felt the sway of the boat beneath him, smelled the salt breeze as it rushed past him. That was gone. His life. His passion. His purpose. If it weren’t for the fact that he had no tears left, that thought would’ve brought on another round of them, but Graham stared dry-eyed at the ceiling, caught in the melancholy gripping his heart.

  But then again, he would never have to eat hardtack ever again. Fresh bread was a luxury that those ashore took for granted and could be counted among Graham’s favorite things, and there was no reason he would not be able to eat it with every meal for the rest of his life.

  Or sauerkraut. No more sauerkraut. Just the thought of that briny mess made Graham’s throat tighten. Vegetables were a precious commodity on a ship and most captains, Graham included, carried a large supply of the foul but easily stored foodstuff. In small doses, it was fine, but by the barrelful, it was disgusting.

  And yet, there’d been plenty of times when Graham had thought hardtack and sauerkraut the most delicious feast imaginable. Those long stretches at sea when supplies were short and the victuals dwindled with each passing day. He’d not suffered through many such voyages, but Graham still remembered a stretch as a lowly midshipman when his ship had been cut off from supplies. The hunger had been a gnawing maggot, eating away at him until all he could think of was food. The crewmen withered away, several of them succumbing to scurvy and starvation. Graham remembered the haunted look in the sailors’ eyes when the last rat had been killed and consumed.

  No, Graham would not miss that.

  Or the battles. For all that he was a naval man, the fighting had been a necessary unpleasantness for the opportunity to sail the seas. Of course, the strategy required for broadside battle was thrilling, but the bloodshed and death that surrounded it weighed on Graham’s heart. The flash of swords. The screams as ships were torn to pieces. The gore littering the deck. Graham would never have to hear the dying moans of his sailors. Would never have to scrub his friends’ blood from his hands and face. He would never have to kill. Flashes of his fevered nightmares sprang to mind, and Graham shook away the images.

  As he churned over these thoughts, Graham realized that if ever there was something good that had come from this tragedy, it was spending this time with his sister and her husband. His relationship with both had strengthened greatly over the past year, and as much as he wished for his old life, Graham could not say with certainty that he would be willing to erase his memories of Mina and Simon during the past year even if it meant resorting his health.

  That thought startled him, but it was true. The more Graham thought on it, the more he sensed its veracity. He cherished seeing his sister flush with the glow of motherhood. To witness her so happily settled with Simon. To become better acquainted with his brother-in-law. This was all a grand blessing that had come from his injury, and it made Graham ponder about all the other things he had missed while at sea; Mina’s letters had been so plentiful and detailed that Graham hadn’t thought much about the life he was missing ashore.

  Regret lingered in his heart, but the warmth of that thought grew, filling Graham with a hope that had been sadly lacking in his life for many months. A true hope based on something more than a fantasy he had built in his head and an unwillingness to face reality.

  And then a new thought struck him.

  He could build a family of his own. Marriage had never been a priority to Graham. Not that he disliked the possibility, but being surrounded by sailors and having little contact with ladies hadn’t been conducive to such musings. But now that his attention was forced away from that life, Graham wondered at the possibility. Truth be told, he wondered at a very specific possibility.

  Tabby. If ever there was a blessing to be found in his injury, it was Tabitha Russell. Graham could say unequivocally that it had directly brought them together. That cannonball had thrown Tabby into his life, upending everything he had thought he wanted.

  Graham flushed at the memory of her hand entwined with his. It had been terribly inappropriate, and Graham would love to blame it on his addled mind, but it had been no thoughtless gesture, and he would not regret it. It had been far more gentlemanly than sweeping her into his arms, which is precisely what he had wanted to do; not that he could manage that in his current state.

  Exhaustion seeped into Graham. Regardless of how his mind spun, he felt his strength ebb. He shifted, fighting off the sleep that pulled at him. As he lay there
, Graham’s future shifted before him, and a new picture began to form. Not of his ship and his men sailing the world, but a far quieter yet similarly grand life. A home with a wife and children. But there was no fighting his body as it drifted into unconsciousness to fill his mind with dreams of Tabby.

  Chapter 20

  “You never did!” Tabby gasped, eyes wide as Captain Ashbrook laughed.

  “I did,” he said through a wide grin.

  Tabby wiped away the tears of mirth. “The poor man.”

  “Poor, nothing. Bentley had to be one of the most arrogant, vainest men I ever sailed with, and he got everything he deserved. Besides, it was only a little henna I had picked up in India. It came off eventually.”

  Tabby shook her head and though she wished to give him a good scowl for his wicked ways the image of the fop waking to find his face covered in blemishes was too delicious.

  “Don’t give me that look,” said Captain Ashbrook. “I was locked on a ship with him for weeks at a time, forced to listen to his never-ending diatribes about hygiene. We once had to cut our water rations, and the man used his for washing rather than drinking.”

  Leaning into the chair, Tabby felt more lighthearted than she had in a good, long while. The sun came through the windows, giving the entire bedchamber a glow, but it paled in comparison to the lightness in the captain’s expression. In the month since he had awoken from his delirium, Captain Ashbrook had become a different man. Something had changed in him. Gone was the brooding melancholy that the Gothic novel heroes would be hard-pressed to equal.

  Tabby was no fool. She knew there would be hard moments ahead for him, but for the first time, Tabby truly thought he had turned the corner.

  “You, sir, are incorrigible,” she said, finally giving way to a laugh.

  “Ah, but that is part of my charm,” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

  Tabby could not argue with that. In such spirits, the man was too charming by half.

  “Have you thought about writing down your stories?” she asked.

  The captain scratched at his jaw. “Why would I do that?”

  “To preserve them,” said Tabby with a shrug. “Or you could publish them. No, give it a thought,” she said when he started to shake his head. “Besides being entertaining, you could be helping the next generation of sailors. You could share your experience and knowledge.”

  “There are books aplenty about sailing,” he replied.

  “All of which are certain to be incredibly dry,” she said. “Yours could blend stories of the high seas with practical knowledge. If anything, you could give people a glimpse into the life of a naval officer. I am certain there would be those who would love to read such accounts.”

  “I do not—”

  “And you enjoy writing,” she said, cutting off whatever half-hearted argument he was going to pose. “Your sister told me about your letters, and I doubt there is a man alive who has spent so much time corresponding with his relatives.”

  The more she spoke, the more Tabby latched onto the idea. It would not be as grand as sailing the world, but it would give the gentleman a manner in which to use his passion.

  “Captain—”

  But Jillian knocked on the door, cutting off any further argument.

  “Ma’am,” she said with a curtsy, “may I speak with you a moment?”

  Tabby stood, giving Captain Ashbrook a quick, “We shall continue this later,” before following the maid out into the hall.

  “There is someone here to see you, ma’am,” was all Jillian said, refusing to speak further on the subject. Tabby followed her downstairs, but instead of the sitting room, the maid led her to the kitchen. Sitting at the slab table was Phillip.

  “Sweetheart!” she said, rushing to him.

  “He appeared on the doorstep a few minutes ago,” said Mrs. Bunting.

  Phillip grinned around a mouthful of biscuit, his mouth ringed in milk. He tried to speak, but crumbs went flying this way and that.

  “What are you doing here?” Tabby asked as she swept the mess.

  Taking a big swallow, Phillip tried again. “Mrs. Allen had to leave, so she left me at home, but Papa wasn’t there. And I waited and waited and waited for him, and I was so hungry, so I came to the food house.”

  “Mrs. Allen left you alone?” asked Tabby, her heart stopping at that thought.

  Phillip nodded. “Patience flew to wensa and needed her mama.”

  Tabby tried to interpret his words, but no matter how he rephrased the sentence, she could not decipher it. Not that it mattered, for it did not change the situation. Tabby’s heart chilled at the thought of Phillip making the long journey from their cottage to Gladwell House and all the possible hazards he may have faced, and she swept him into her arms.

  “Mama,” groaned Phillip, pushing away from her.

  Sitting him on his chair, Tabby’s mind whirled at the problem that had landed in her lap.

  “I can distract Captain Ashbrook while you take him home, ma’am,” offered Jillian.

  “But there is no one at home to watch over him,” said Tabby.

  “Don’t fret,” said Mrs. Bunting. “We will figure something out.”

  ***

  Mrs. Russell was acting quite strangely. It was as though she could not sit still for more than a few minutes before she disappeared again. Graham knew something must be going on, but the lady deflected any questions he posed. He watched as she hurried out of the room for the fifth time in the last hour and knew it was time to do a bit of investigating.

  Throwing off the covers, Graham gingerly brought his legs out and set his feet on the floor. Sliding them into the waiting slippers, he reached for his cane. Graham sat on the edge of the bed, preparing himself for the journey, and when he felt ready, he leaned forward, placing all his weight on his cane. His muscles ached and protested, but he got to his feet. And again, he waited. It was one thing to be upright and another to move about, and Graham knew better than to rush things. Of course, he knew better than to stand on his own, but with Mrs. Russell’s evasiveness, he doubted she would help him.

  His left leg was weakened from disuse but functional. His right was another matter. Pain shot through his thigh when he tried to lift it, so he slid it along the ground. That movement wasn’t much better, but at that point, even a moderate improvement was something. His right arm throbbed in time with his heartbeat, but he could ignore it. The cane hit the ground with a snap, his right foot dragged along, and his left stomped with more noise than he wanted. There was no sneaking about with as much racket as he was making. Snap, drag, stomp. Snap, drag, stomp.

  That cacophony aside, Graham was grateful that he made it out the room and to the top of the stairs. His body was no better than it had been before the last failed surgery but no worse, either, which Graham now counted a blessing. Standing at the top of the stairs, he paused, giving himself a moment to rest before he tackled them. If he went slow enough, Graham knew he could do it. In fact, this whole interlude surprised him on two fronts: first, that he was making as much headway, and second, that Mrs. Russell had not come running at the sound of his movements.

  Graham glowered at the stairs, determined to make it down in one piece and without gravity doing all the work. Cautiously, he took the first and rested. Then the second. It took many long minutes as he inched to the ground floor. And still, Mrs. Russell had not swooped in. Something was definitely amiss.

  Once he reached the final step, the rest of the journey felt like it took no time at all. Graham found the sitting room empty and followed the sounds of chaos coming from the kitchen. With the din, it was no surprise that they had not heard him coming. Pushing open the kitchen door, he found it far removed from the clean and orderly fashion that Mrs. Bunting usually kept it in. Flour covered the table, sprinkled about like the first snow of winter.

  “Phillip!” gasped Mrs. Russell, grabbing the flour sack from a small boy. The child was clearly the origin of the snowstorm as he
was covered in the white powder, his blue eyes standing out among the mess.

  “Hello!” he said, waving a hand at Graham, sending a shower of flour across the floor. “We’re making fairy cakes.”

  Mrs. Russell’s eyes widened as she saw Graham, and the other ladies froze like startled deer.

  “Captain Ashbrook…” Mrs. Russell began, but her words trailed off.

  “You must be Mrs. Russell’s son,” said Graham, dragging himself across the room, though he did not get more than a step before Mrs. Russell came to his side and helped him to the table.

  “Phillip,” the child said, sticking out his hand, but Mrs. Russell grabbed Phillip’s wrist before he covered Graham in a fine dusting of flour; Graham simply ignored that and gave the child a hearty handshake.

  “I apologize,” said Mrs. Russell. “My neighbor watches him, but something happened and she is unable—”

  “Your son is more than welcome here,” said Graham. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  “You want to make fairy cakes with us?” asked Phillip with a broad smile.

  “It sounds delightful,” said Graham, reaching over to brush off a seat.

  “You don’t have to—” began Mrs. Russell, but Graham interrupted.

  “You have told me how much you enjoy cooking. Perhaps it is time I try my hand at it, too.” Graham lowered himself onto the chair and groaned at the relief it brought. “What do we do?”

  Mrs. Russell glanced at Phillip and Graham, over to Mrs. Bunting and Jillian, and then at Graham once more. He saw the thoughts spinning through her head, and he gave her a reassuring smile. A bit of the tension left her shoulders.

  “First, I must take my messy boy outside for a good brushing. Then, we shall make some fairy cakes,” said Mrs. Russell, leading the child out the back door.