A Gentleman's Daughter: A sweet, clean historical romance (Sisters of the Revolution Book 1)

by Diana Davis

  Today her amber eyes held pity. Contemptuous pity.

  He blinked slowly, trying to make sure he was seeing this correctly. But he already knew that scorn far too well to mistake it. How many times had others — his own family — regarded him that way?

  As if he were nothing, less than nothing, a sorry waste of a life?

  He had had more than enough of that disdain. He didn’t have to take it, especially not from her.

  Heat began to build in his chest, and this time not from the fever. How dare she? She, the daughter of some obscure country squire? Run out of her home and thrust onto the charity of unknown relatives? Who was Miss Cassandra Crofton to sneer at him with contempt?

  “Leave me.”

  She did not react for a long moment. “Beg pardon? Do you want me to get you something?”

  “I want you to leave.”

  Slowly, confusion overtook her features. “Leave? But you’re ill —”

  “Thank you so much for telling me. I’d never have reached such a conclusion without your astonishing ability to observe the obvious.”

  Her eyebrows knitted together. “Lord David, the fever is making you delirious.”

  “I assure you I am in my right mind about this, Miss Crofton.”

  Now the confusion and the pity warred in her eyes, but the pity won out. “I want to help you.”

  “Help me?” He’d let her treat him as an equal, and this was where it had gotten him. Perhaps she was right to pity him. Perhaps he was nothing. Perhaps he didn’t have a purpose to his life. Perhaps he was going to die in this poxy place.

  But he would never die with some lowly gentleman’s daughter looking down her nose at him. He struggled to sit up, and Cassandra moved to help him.

  He pulled away from her reach. “Do I not make myself clear?” He wished his voice conveyed the fire he felt instead of the fever. “Get out, and do not return.”

  Cassandra drew back. “You’re — are you — do you mean to dismiss me?”

  “Yes, girl. Out.” He jerked his chin toward the door.

  She jerked back as if he’d slapped her. She stood in stunned silence, gaping for six long seconds. And then she snapped her mouth shut, offered him the curtest nod, and spun on her heel. The door snapped shut behind her and her footsteps retreated away.

  There was no mistaking the flame behind her countenance. He’d ignited that ember enough times to recognize it, and this time he’d added kindling and a bellows.

  He sank back against the pillows, the silence settling uneasily around him.

  He’d cast out his oldest friend. His only friend.

  Perhaps he deserved whatever happened to him.

  Three days after Lord David had so discourteously dismissed her, Cassandra was still seething. “Who does he think he is, really?” she asked Helen as they bobbed along in the coach toward Germantown.

  “We knew who he was all along,” Helen pointed out.

  Cassandra stared out the window at the neat row of brick buildings. That was her sister’s version of sympathy. “What sort of position did he think he was in, throwing me out like that?”

  “At least he didn’t have his valet bodily kick you out.”

  “And what did I ever do?” If Helen was going to insist on being so unhelpful, Cassandra would simply ignore her comments. The tactics had served them both well enough. “I only risked my reputation to nurse him, take care of him.”

  “Luckily, no one knows about that, unless you’d like to announce it to the rest of Philadelphia.” Helen gestured out the window.

  “Yes, but if they did, I should be ruined.”

  Helen had to concede that point. “Fortunately, Uncle Josiah’s apprentices are quite discreet, he says. If they even noticed.”

  “Very fortunate.” Cassandra sat back hard against the seat. “Think of all the children I could have helped in that time.”

  “None of whom died for lack of your care.”

  They knew of four children who had died in the last week, not including the two she’d held. At least he hadn’t caused that.

  But there were plenty of other things she could blame him for. “Can you believe how he treated us all the way across the sea, and then he wants to claim I’m his oldest friend in the colonies, and then tear that all away?”

  Helen didn’t respond for a long moment, so Cassandra checked her reaction. Rather than finding her incensed or ignoring her, she found Helen’s eyes narrowed and her lips pursed, looking . . . perplexed. “He said what?”

  “Get out?”

  “No, not that. He said you were his oldest friend in the colonies?”

  “Oh. Yes.” Had she not mentioned that to Helen?

  No, she hadn’t. Partly because she knew it had to be the fever talking.

  And partly because somehow, a part of her truly wished it wasn’t.

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “Merely that I — we — are the only two people he knows here that he met before landing at the docks.”

  “Yes, but surely he knows someone else who has come to the colonies.”

  Cassandra sighed. She actually wanted her sister to validate her hopes, say that Lord David had said such a thing especially about her, but here was Helen, attempting to debate the facts of his claim.

  Helen turned to her sister. “Wouldn’t you rather be shut of him?”

  “Of course.”

  She’d hesitated for only a sliver of a second, but it was long enough for her sister to catch. Helen’s expression grew quizzical. “Surely you don’t still . . . fancy him?”

  “Who? Lord David? That pompous, arrogant — no.” She proclaimed it and folded her hands in her lap. “No.”

  “Apologies,” Helen said. She let the conversation settle a moment, but when she spoke again, her voice carried a tone that was deceptively light. “Then you would not care if he did succumb to the smallpox?”

  Cassandra swallowed hard. He was very ill, but that wasn’t a possibility. Was it? “As a Christian, I should not wish him harm.”

  “Ah. I’d forgotten you were so very devout.”

  “Quite.” Obviously even after sixteen years, she would never escape her sister’s teasing about the solid year she’d thrown a fit over going to church. Today, she’d take it if it meant deflecting the conversation away from that topic.

  Helen rode in silence for two blocks. “He is handsome.”

  “Who?” She feigned ignorance. “Our Lord?”

  “Your lord.”

  Cassandra skewered her sister with a scowl. “I do not appreciate you making a joke of our Savior that way.”

  “I — you —” Helen rolled her eyes heavenward and pressed her palms together. “Forgive me.”

  Cassandra wasn’t sure how her sister could both mock her and be perfectly pious to God at the exact same time.

  She and her sister swayed side by side as the coach rode on. She was glad that she had all her time back so she could help her family and the needy. Lord David had no need of her help anymore.

  Except that he obviously had needed her that day. He was so pale and listless, and even though she could do little but try to make him comfortable, her heart had ached to help him.

  If she was honest, it still did.

  No. She could not own to even knowing a man who would treat her with so little respect. After she’d told him about her parents, Heartcomb, so many things that were so personal to her. And he’d shared his own stories, when he’d had the strength.

  That hadn’t been enough, in the end. He’d always see her as a dowdy little country bumpkin, hardly fit to make his acquaintance. If her reputation had been ruined, he would never have lowered himself to do the honorable thing.

  But marrying him was the last thing she wanted.

  She held a hand to her chest to try to relieve the hollow ache.

  They had shared personal things. She was beginning to believe that they were friends. And then for him to treat her with such contempt? What h
ad she done to deserve that?

  Perhaps it was the fever talking. Or perhaps the fever had only allowed him to show his true nature, the way he truly felt about her. That he had never respected her. Could never respect her.

  “Well, fortunately, we shall never have to see Lord David again,” Helen concluded.

  “Indeed.”

  Although he did live above Uncle Josiah’s law office, certainly she could avoid him. It wasn’t as though they would associate in the same society.

  Why did that thought not bring her any comfort?

  The fever had finally begun to subside by the time Lord David’s first letter from his family arrived. He had to read it three times to be sure he understood everything his mother was saying.

  Actually, it wasn’t what she was saying that was difficult to comprehend. It was what she hadn’t said that boggled the mind, as recently fever-addled as it was.

  After the salutation, there was literally no mention of him. No questions. No messages from anyone to pass along — and it wasn’t as though he’d been entirely friendless. The closest she came to mentioning him was sharing the latest gossip about Miss Arabella Simpson, whom she had not-very-subtly tried to push on him for the last two years.

  He checked every inch of both pages and there was nothing more personal to be found than a story of his niece — clever, but spiteful, very like someone he knew. His mother could have sent this letter to literally anyone in their circle of acquaintance. Anyone to whom she was willing to show how big of a gossip she was, anyway.

  Lord David tossed the letter away and it landed on the coverlet. Even thousands of miles away, his family didn’t notice he was gone. Didn’t care.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised. They’d hardly attended him when he lived under the same roof.

  He looked back at the letter. At least she had thought to write, hadn’t she? Shouldn’t he be grateful she hadn’t forgotten him the moment he was out of sight?

  Lord David thrust the thought from his mind. He’d spent too much of his life living under their contempt. No, he wasn’t Georgette, and he could never replace her, but did that mean they had to hate him so?

  He rubbed at the scabs along his wrist, trying not to damage the skin. Had his mother even cared about keeping him from the smallpox? Or had she only kept him away from miasmas because she wished she could have protected Georgette?

  Clearly he could not simply not think of this. He reached for the book on his night table, Robinson Crusoe.

  Cassandra had read to him from that book.

  Of course, she’d also regarded him with that same contempt he’d felt his whole life. He didn’t have to be treated that way any longer. He wouldn’t stand for it.

  Hadn’t she?

  Lord David opened the book to the correct page where she’d left off.

  Why had her scorn bothered him so? Shouldn’t he have been used to that treatment by now?

  Not from her. Cassandra had been . . . respectful.

  Perhaps that wasn’t the right word. At least she’d treated him like a person.

  And he’d treated her as less than human.

  She’d been more than respectful to him. She’d been kind. That was something he’d never received from Arabella Simpson or anyone else in their set, and especially not his family.

  And that must have been why it stung so badly to lose it for that moment.

  A moment that he might have misinterpreted.

  A moment that he might have well made permanent.

  Lord David set the book aside on the bed. It landed on top of the letter. That blasted letter. As soon as he had the strength to get to the fireplace, he’d burn it.

  Why on earth did he care so much about what his family thought? They’d shown how little they cared for him already, abundantly. Why did he ever care about his worth to them?

  He sank back against the pillow. What was his worth? If he wasn’t Lord David Beaufort, youngest son of the Marquess of Dorset, youngest brother of the Earl of Somerset, who in all of the British Empire would have ever cared to have known him?

  Not Arabella Simpson.

  And at this point, probably not Cassandra Crofton, either.

  He deserved that. He’d been so focused on her pity that it became all he could see. Why shouldn’t she pity him? Who didn’t look pitiful under the effects of a fever?

  And then he forgot who she was and how much he cared about her — and treated her the exact same way his family had always treated him.

  Who cared who her father was? Who cared who his father was?

  That was not what mattered. That was not why he’d left. That was not why he’d come here. He’d come here for purpose.

  Cassandra had found hers in helping the less fortunate, the sick families of Germantown. Was there some way he could find purpose beyond his father’s money and title?

  He could try. It would probably not be enough to show that he understood how wrong he’d been to Cassandra, but for his own sake, he had to try.

  Had he really thought he could buy her favor with a few lengths of silk? He could buy the entire silk filature and present it to her, and still he wouldn’t deserve her notice.

  He rang the bell for Westing, who appeared quickly. “Yes, sir?”

  “Let’s get dressed.”

  “Dressed?”

  Lord David forgave him his surprise. It had been at least three weeks since he’d had the strength to get out of bed, despite Dr. Rush’s repeated orders. “Yes, dressed. I have work to do.”

  “You have?”

  Lord David threw aside the covers and threw his feet over the side of the bed. He let Westing help him to his feet. Once standing, he was mostly steady. “Dr. Rush wanted me up and walking,” he said. “So up and walking I must be.”

  “Naturally, sir. I’ll get your clothing.”

  Ten minutes later, he was dressed to the waistcoat and in his study. He still desperately needed a shave, but already he was beginning to feel better. Possibly simply because he was doing something.

  The papers on his desk were still laid out in the piles where he’d left them. As he’d widened the net in the search, he’d found a number of slightly riskier investments, ones that might not yield the same level of return, but ones where the owners clearly needed the help. They seemed to be honest workers, based on the profiles Josiah had sent up, but he hadn’t met them himself.

  Perhaps Westing could visit them to ascertain whom he could help the most. Yes, that seemed wise, especially in his current state.

  Ignoring the scabs on his hands and wrists, he began a list of the establishments Westing should visit. This was precisely what he needed.

  Or nearly so.

  The days and weeks had already run together for Cassandra. She wasn’t exactly sure the time of day in this cramped, dark cabin. The smallpox outbreak in Germantown had only gotten worse, while her cousins were almost completely healed. Clearly, the inoculation was a far superior method than suffering through the full illness as she and Helen had done years ago.

  Helen finished preparing an oatmeal plaster, and Cassandra applied the plaster to her little patient’s stomach. The girl didn’t speak a word of English — didn’t even understand when they asked her name — but she’d made it obvious that the itching from the scabs was unbearable. At least she was nearly healed. The last three families they’d seen today all had at least one child who looked like they wouldn’t make it through the night.

  They’d brought food to families who were too weak to feed themselves, tried to soothe the aches and fevers, applied plasters for healing, and even cleaned up sick, which Cassandra was fairly certain should qualify her to be awarded the Order of the Bath. It had certainly qualified her for a bath, at the least.

  Once she’d been so thoroughly dismissed by Lord David, Cassandra had had more time to help the families of Germantown. So it was for the best. Even if she actually missed sitting and talking with him, reminiscing about home and some of the more ridic
ulous people they’d known. She’d thought they were friends, or even equals.

  She’d been wrong.

  The little girl’s whimpering finally quieted, and Cassandra checked on the next child. The little boy lay still — too still. Cassandra touched his hand, trying to find a patch of skin that wasn’t covered with the sores.

  He was cold.

  Cassandra shook him, but he remained limp.

  “Helen,” she whispered. “He’s gone.”

  Helen looked over at him, and her shoulders sank, like Cassandra’s heart did. The children’s mother was still feverish, but the father had already survived the smallpox. Helen caught his attention and directed him to his son.

  Without a word, the man gathered him up into his arms and proceeded to weep.

  Helen and Cassandra quietly collected their things and slipped out.

  That had definitely been the hardest part of the past weeks: the children who didn’t make it. Sometimes, the meaning she’d found in nursing the sick was cold comfort.

  Cassandra was surprised to find the sky darkening already. Uncle Josiah’s coach would be waiting. Helen took her free hand as they walked to where they were to meet the coach. “We did all that we could for them.”

  Cassandra agreed, although she couldn’t help but wonder if they’d arrived sooner, or if they’d come to this house yesterday, if the little boy might still have been alive.

  Of course, there was little they could do to stop the disease. They didn’t have medicine or training. All they had was the example of their mother to follow, and Cassandra had only seen that in person a few times. She’d mostly heeded Helen’s directions, since she’d gone out with Mama more.

  Helen seemed to read her mind — or she was following the same line of thought. “Mama always said that every kindness we can offer is enough. We’re doing all we can.”

  Cassandra nodded. Her mind knew that there was nothing more they could have done, and they were lucky they could help anyone in the family. But her heart wished otherwise. From Helen’s tone, she could tell her sister felt the same.