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

by Diana Davis

  “My purpose?” Lord David faltered for a moment. “I hope. I hear you’ve settled on yours?”

  Cassandra glanced up at Dr. Drinker, her new tutor. “I have.”

  Lord David followed her gaze. “Ah. Wonderful.”

  “Did you know?” Dr. Drinker said. “Miss Crofton is quite extraordinary.”

  “Hm.” He made it sound as though that really were an interesting tidbit.

  “How do you know Miss Crofton?” Dr. Drinker asked.

  Lord David hesitated a moment, not looking at her. “Ah, we’re . . . old friends.”

  Were they?

  “He’s leased the apartment upstairs from my uncle,” Cassandra said.

  Dr. Drinker accepted her explanation, as did Lord David, albeit with more resignation. He turned to Cassandra. “Would you please tell your uncle I wish to speak with him in the morning?”

  “Certainly.”

  Lord David bowed from the neck to each of them and took his leave.

  Cassandra waited until the door upstairs closed before she addressed Dr. Drinker. “Whom did you hear about Lord David from?”

  “Oh, a friend of mine is an overseer at the tannery. It seems your friend is after worthy colonial businesses that he can help.”

  “Is he?” Worthy colonial businesses? Perhaps he couldn’t do that in England. But what exactly did that mean?

  Dr. Drinker finally released her arm. “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He left, and Cassandra seated herself in the corner to watch the clerks prepare their final report. And not to watch the stairwell. At least not very much.

  Lord David pondered the bookcases in his study as if he had the time or inclination to read today.

  What he really needed was a distraction. It had been nearly fourteen hours since he’d seen Cassandra, and, unfortunately, he’d been able to think of little else.

  Dr. Adam Drinker. Who was this man? Cassandra looked to him for her purpose? After how Josiah had gone on and on about how proud he was of Cassandra’s work with the poor and the ill? How long could she have known this Drinker? With a name like that, how could she be sure he was no drunkard?

  Lord David shook off the notion. His thoughts had suddenly developed a terrible habit of transporting him to the ridiculous. The man’s name did not mean he was a drunkard. Cassandra had better judgment than that, he hoped. She’d certainly given him wide berth when he had shown no respect to her, so he would hope Drinker would give her that much.

  Lord David had certainly failed her.

  But he was trying to do better. Even if it could never be enough to undo his words.

  Westing opened the door to the study. “The coach is here, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Westing.”

  Today’s meeting was particularly delicate. It had taken some doing to find a sea captain who was willing to talk to him, but after speaking with a number of merchants and businesses in town, he had begun to see how important trade by sea was within the colonies.

  If there was something he could do to help other people in the colonies — people who needed support far more than any business he’d known in England — it was beginning to feel like his duty.

  The last thing he needed today was to be distracted by Cassandra. She had found her path forward, and clearly it had nothing to do with him. He’d made that happen. He needed to accept that.

  By the time the coach reached its destination, Lord David had nearly fully returned his focus to business. He had made the calculated decision to forgo a wig today, as no one he’d met with previously had worn one, and wear his plainest clothes, which were still a bit obvious in their value.

  The coach pulled up in front of the warehouse, and Lord David climbed out and walked directly up to the door. The occupant answered quickly: a tall, broad man in a gray coat in the simpler homespun style of Philadelphians. The captain might have been his own age.

  He could not have imagined meeting with a ship’s captain to discuss business a month before, and yet, here he was. “Captain Carter?” he asked.

  He offered his hand. “Are you to be my investor?”

  “I hope so. Beaufort,” Lord David introduced himself. His name without any title felt like an oddly fitting shoe.

  “Come in,” Carter invited him.

  In the narrow confines of his office, Carter had laid out a map, with various shipping routes along the American coast marked in colored ink. “You’re new to the colonies?”

  “Very.” Admitting as much humbled him, but perhaps that was for the best.

  Surely Cassandra would think so.

  Carter pointed out the routes on the map, identifying which goods were traded between colonies. The number was disappointing. “We do still depend heavily on imports from Britain,” Carter concluded, “or our own raw materials being processed into finished goods over there and then sold back to us.”

  Carter’s hand came to rest on Boston, one of the other main ports along the coast, in addition to Philadelphia and New York. The only thing Lord David knew of Boston was the engraving he’d seen in the tavern on his first day in the colonies. The Boston Massacre. British soldiers firing on defenseless colonists.

  Small wonder men like Carter were becoming more interested in trade within the colonies.

  Finally, the feeling he’d been waiting for all these weeks came: this was right. This was his purpose.

  “All right,” Lord David said. “What can I do?”

  Cassandra found herself in another dim sickroom, but now it was without the quiet desperation and torment of the smallpox. She gave Dr. Drinker the correct fleam from his case. The hinged device concealed a number of triangular blades for opening a vein. Dr. Drinker was particularly conservative when it came to letting a patient, but for this elderly woman with a fever that would not abate, it seemed necessary.

  Her official duties complete, Cassandra took the patient’s other hand in hers and wet a rag to mop her brow. “Rest, Mrs. Gibson,” she said. “You need to rest.”

  Mrs. Gibson sucked in air when the blade pierced her skin. She was already so pale that Cassandra was worried about her even without the fever.

  She wet another rag and laid it on the woman’s collarbones. Her breath was short and shallow.

  Cassandra had already lost more patients than she’d ever wish to in Germantown, most of them children. That didn’t make it any easier to watch someone who could have been her grandmother slipping from this life.

  She barely remembered her grandmother, her mother’s mother, and Uncle Josiah’s. But something about this woman’s wiry white hair brought her to mind again. She’d loved to read to Cassandra and Helen, until her eyesight failed.

  Perhaps that was why Cassandra had thought of reading to Lord David.

  How long had it been, and her thoughts still strayed to him? He had certainly cast her off discourteously, to misquote that old lay allegedly by Henry VIII. He hadn’t seemed overly regretful the one time she’d seen him since. And that was fine with her. She’d never wanted to make his acquaintance in the first place.

  Cassandra held on to Mrs. Gibson as her breathing slowed to a normal rate. Dr. Drinker allowed Cassandra to bind up the cut while he disposed of the blood. They watched the bandage, and her, for a long moment, to make sure all would be well.

  As far as they could see, it would be. But a mere month of practicing “real” medicine had already taught her a dear lesson: there were no guarantees and no way of seeing the future. This could well be Mrs. Gibson’s final illness.

  They assured Mrs. Gibson’s daughter they had done all they could. “Keep the rags on her head and chest refreshed with cool liquid,” Cassandra added. “For her comfort.”

  “Thank you for your kindness,” the daughter said.

  The words stirred a memory almost as old as that of her grandmother. They were the exact words she’d heard a dozen people say to her mother.

  The daughter pressed a coin into Dr. Drinker’s
hand. Cassandra had also learned that they might well be owed the difference between that payment and their fee forever.

  Medicine was a cruel business in many ways, but if he could escape starving, Dr. Drinker had vowed not to force that fate on a patient or their family.

  “You know, you really are a comfort to everyone we see,” Dr. Drinker said once they were outside. The sun was high once they left the Gibsons’, but Cassandra’s spirits were not.

  “Thank you,” she managed. She was beginning to see that comforting was an art she’d been tutored in far longer than medicine.

  “Would you like to take dinner with your family?” he offered.

  It was a good idea, she had to admit. They were much closer to her home than his, and Uncle Josiah had issued him a standing invitation to join them for meals. “Let’s,” she said on a sigh.

  Transportation was one luxury a doctor could not do without, and Dr. Drinker’s hooded carriage was small and light to help him attend emergencies better. Cassandra had no doubt but that riding with him probably looked scandalous, but she’d racked up a number of scandalous behaviors since she’d come to the colonies.

  A fine way for a gentleman’s daughter to behave.

  She chuckled to herself. She was no longer sure that held any meaning. She would always be the daughter of Thomas Crofton, but what did his status matter to her life? She was making her own life here now, and she had something to contribute.

  Besides, even if she were ruined in this society, she still knew hardly anyone aside from her family, the doctor and her German patients.

  And Lord David. But who cared what he thought?

  The drive back to her uncle’s house was short, and Dr. Drinker handed her down from his little carriage. If she was not mistaken, he had begun taking her arm more often. He was a kind man, and he certainly did respect her and what she did. She could easily marry him and be completely happy.

  Or completely not.

  She did not object when he took her arm, however, and they walked into the house together.

  It took a very long moment for Cassandra to understand the scene in the drawing room before her. Her sister and cousins were gathered about the room, Verity having apparently induced Mercy into playacting one of Constance’s comedies before the fireplace. Verity wore a very fine man’s coat, blue with silver scrolling embroidery. Even her aunt and uncle were laughing.

  And there, in the middle of it all, laughing along with them, was . . . Lord David? Precisely as she’d seen him last: without a coat or wig. And perfectly at home.

  How — why — when had he become part of her family?

  He glanced over and saw her and Dr. Drinker at the door and instantly stood. His expression darkened.

  Yes, that was him. He’d definitely recognized her.

  Cassandra looked away from him as the room’s attention shifted to her. “Good afternoon. You all know Dr. Drinker?” She hoped they wouldn’t have to go through a round of introductions.

  Her cousins seemed more or less familiar with him, and she quickly introduced Helen.

  Uncle Josiah came over to shake his hand. “So glad you could join us.”

  “We didn’t realize you had other company,” Cassandra said. “We can certainly eat elsewhere.”

  “Nonsense. Our home is always open.”

  Right on time, Polly appeared at the door to announce dinner. Lord David approached Verity first, and she shrugged out of his coat. Constance beat Temperance to claim his arm. Apparently something of the etiquette lessons Helen had been giving them had set in, because Temperance didn’t help herself to his other arm. Cassandra and Helen were both fairly certain the standard etiquette for formal dining in country estates didn’t quite apply in colonial city life, but it never hurt to learn.

  As Dr. Drinker already had Cassandra’s arm, he accompanied her to the dining room. She caught Helen’s eye and the little show of excitement she conveyed, but she found she felt none of it herself.

  She liked Dr. Drinker very much. Appreciated him even more. But that was all she felt for him.

  She watched Lord David as he helped Constance to her seat. Dr. Drinker did her the same courtesy, seating her directly across from Lord David.

  If Dr. Drinker had any designs on her hand, this seating arrangement of his was a very stupid idea.

  Lord David met her gaze, and she quickly looked away. Why must he always act as though he had something to say to her? Surely he’d already said enough.

  Polly and Ginny placed the first course on the table and joined them. Roasted beef and Polly’s best brown bread were normally Cassandra’s favorite, but she found she had lost her appetite.

  Aunt Anne leaned close. “Are you well, my dear?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She forced herself to take a bite of beef.

  “Lord David,” Uncle Josiah began, “how goes your business?”

  “Oh, I’m sure no one wants to speak of such things at the table.”

  “And your purpose?” The words were out before Cassandra could stop them.

  Lord David was stunned for a moment but met her eyes again. “I think I’ve found it, yes.”

  “Good.” She very much wanted to know what that purpose was, and it would have been the next logical question to ask a friend. But they were not friends. Her gaze fell to her plate.

  “And how is medicine, Doctor?” Lord David asked. “If we’re talking business.”

  “It has its ups and downs,” Dr. Drinker admitted. “But our downs are typically a bit different than in other lines of work.”

  The table grew somber a moment.

  Dr. Drinker turned to Cassandra. “Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Indeed.”

  Lord David looked between Dr. Drinker and her. “Do you speak of medicine often? To one another?” he asked. He seemed . . . perplexed?

  “Daily?” Cassandra replied. “I’ve found speaking is generally helpful when one is trying to teach another a trade.”

  Lord David blinked twice, then gave a little headshake. “Trying to do what?”

  “Miss Crofton — Cassandra,” Dr Drinker clarified, as there were two Miss Croftons present, “is studying medicine.”

  “From you?”

  “No, from the Governor.” Cassandra glanced at Temperance and added, “And his son.”

  Temperance beamed.

  Uncle Josiah cleared his throat. Obviously he’d had enough of how she’d treated Lord David at his table. “Apologies,” she murmured.

  “Please don’t apologize,” Lord David said. “I’ve missed that.”

  What? Surely she hadn’t heard him correctly. No one could have missed her sarcasm, least of all her favorite victim.

  Lord David continued, speaking to Dr. Drinker. “I’m sure she has quite a talent.”

  “That she does.”

  Cassandra couldn’t tell which one of them spoke with more pride in his voice. Why was Lord David being kind to her? Why was he here? Even her family hadn’t expected her, and yet now he wasn’t at all unhappy to see her?

  It felt as though the floor — or simply the situation — was slowly tilting past her control or comprehension. Her stomach felt as though she were back on the boat again. What on earth was happening?

  Aunt Anne touched her arm. Before she could ask after Cassandra’s wellbeing again, Cassandra stood. “I . . . I need to rest.” She addressed Dr. Drinker. “Take your time. Fetch me before you go, if you please.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Please excuse me,” she bid the rest of the table, and she hurried out.

  She was trying not to obviously flee the room, so she was not fast enough to escape the sound of another chair pushing back from the table. She had almost made the stairs when a hand grasped hers.

  Cassandra shouldn’t have been surprised to find Lord David behind her, but she still was. She pulled free of his fingers and glanced up the stairs.

  “I must speak with you,” Lord David said.

  Th
e urgency in his voice and his sapphire eyes were the only thing that kept her from fleeing whatever harsh rebuke she might have anticipated.

  Her gaze dropped to the floor. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”

  “What?”

  “The governor.” She gestured back at the dining room as if he needed the reminder.

  “As I said, I miss your wit.”

  “You don’t miss being its victim, to be sure.”

  Lord David’s expression agreed to that concession. “I might prefer it aimed in another direction.” He glanced over his shoulder. At the door to the dining room, two heads popped out of sight.

  Lord David scanned the drawing room, but nowhere afforded them more privacy. “Can we sit? Can I . . . talk to you?”

  “We’ve already said enough, haven’t we?”

  His mouth worked in silence for a moment before he closed it. “Have we?” he finally asked.

  “I’ve nothing more to say.”

  “And I’ve said too much.” Lord David looked away from her, his grimace betraying . . . pain?

  Why should he feel any pain, simply because he’d injured her?

  He began to turn away, and Cassandra’s heart caught in her chest as much as it had that day when he’d dismissed her. “We can sit,” she said quickly.

  She couldn’t tell whether Lord David was more surprised or relieved, but he led her back to the pink velvet couch, where they settled at either end.

  Another glance at the door sent two little spies scuttling away again. The sounds of Uncle Josiah’s gentle reprimand carried from the other room.

  Lord David sat across the couch from her, his gaze intense upon her.

  What on earth did he have to say?

  “Cassandra,” Lord David began. “May — may I call you that?”

  “For the moment.”

  He was fortunate to receive even provisional permission. He cleared his throat. Why would the words not come?