The Awakening 0f A Forbidden Passion (Historical Regency Romance)

by Emily Honeyfield

  While sitting in the kitchen, George ate his bread and jam while sipping his brandy and felt all the more silly for it. It was good to be off his feet though. As much as George liked walking, it made his feet ever so tired at the end of the day.

  Perhaps Nathaniel had a point about getting a horse, but where would George keep the animal? Certainly he did not want the bother of having to board it somewhere. No, walking would do just fine.

  George thought about what his visions for his practice were once he got out of school had been like compared to how things actually were. He had thought he would have a quaint little country practice somewhere with regular hours, and the occasional house call. Instead, he got house calls and none of the clinic hours.

  He had been offered a position at the hospital where he had trained, but George felt he was needed on a much more immediate level in the community. All the people that showed up at the hospital were too far gone or not at all. All those people needed was someone to care more about them than the money they could not pay.

  There was nothing wrong with getting paid to practice medicine, but George felt an obligation to weigh out the moral benefits to helping even those who could not pay. Sure, most of it harkened back to his mother, and how all her money had not saved her. George needed to save someone.

  It seemed that no matter how many wins he put into the tally, the losses column always seemed steeply set against him. George drank the last of his brandy and set the dishes aside. He would see to them in the morning when his eyes were clear of the dirt of the day.

  He stretched and trudged up the stairs. He had a long route to cover tomorrow to see all his patients and he would need his strength. After all, who would tend to the doctor if he got sick?

  George chuckled at the thought as he fell into bed. The room was deep and dark. “That man’s forgotten to light our street lamp again,” George mumbled as he drifted off to sleep.

  When his eyes came open again his first thought was that perhaps the man had returned and turned on the light that shone outside of his home. Yet it was the sun, and not any forgotten street lamp. He stretched and mourned that the night had passed so swiftly.

  He sat up groggily and groaned at his clothing. His good coat had got wrinkled while he slept. “Why did I not take it off?” George stood up and undressed.

  There would be no time to iron the coat back to its normal state. He would leave it for the housekeeper that he hired to come by on Saturdays. What day was it? George stopped and pondered the day of the week for a full minute before he remembered it was Friday.

  He laid out some clothes, trimmed his beard which he kept nice and tidy, and washed off. George firmly believed in keeping everything clean, including himself. He had not been quite the stickler for cleanliness before he began his rotations at the hospital. There he had learned to keep himself clean to protect himself from the illnesses his patients brought in.

  “The wonders of soap are a marvelous thing,” his mentor had quipped on many a morning as they scrubbed their hands after seeing to a particularly ill patient. George had taken the lesson to heart, and it had earned him some ribbing from his brother for it.

  George frowned as he remembered his lack of eating the day before. He made himself a hearty breakfast of eggs and toasted bread. “I really must remember to pick up more bread when I go past the bakery this evening,” George mumbled as he eyed his dwindling loaf of bread.

  Once he had eaten, George set out, with his second-best coat on, down the street and two blocks over to check in on his first patient. London as it awakened, was one of George’s favourite times to be out in the city. The sounds and smells of people readying themselves for the day told a story that changed with every building George passed.

  He smelled bacon and heard the sounds of a baby crying. The next building brought the scent of a hardworking washerwoman already at her trade. George could even smell the pungent odor of the apothecary shop as he passed by. Mister Fallon has gone a bit heavy with the lavender in whatever he was concocting this morning, George noted.

  London had all sorts of tales to tell if you had the willingness to listen. George had all day to listen to the secrets of the city as he roamed its streets. He wagered he knew the streets as well as any coachman, or ruffian for that matter.

  A street urchin raced along the sidewalk and George deftly avoided the child. He shook his head. No doubt the child was late getting to whatever job he had to do that morning. George had learned the hard way to avoid the street children whenever possible. Some of them had a penchant for stealing that left a sour taste in George’s mouth.

  George remembered his promise to Nathaniel as he walked. He would need to make arrangements for some of his patients who needed regular care. Most of them could not pay, so he would have to pay the fees to get another doctor to look after them while he was gone on his visit.

  That would be a good chunk of change out of his pocket but it would be worth it to make sure they were all in good hands while he was away. George pulled out his pocket watch out and looked at it. The walk was taking longer this morning.

  The longer time was probably because his mind kept wandering, and as his mind wandered, his steps slowed. He put his mind back to the task at hand. He had patients to visit.

  Chapter 3

  A few days later, Priscilla and Philip were taking a walk around the garden, under her mother’s ever watching gaze. They strode through the low hedges and roses, while her mother sat under the shade of a gazebo. Philip led her around the garden path, careful to stay where Lady Chaplin could see them at all times.

  “It doesn’t feel real,” Priscilla commented as they walked. “Does it really feel as if we should be getting married in a few weeks?”

  Philip laughed, his head leaned back as if she had amused him very much. “You are really quite unique.”

  “Unique is not always good,” Priscilla reminded him.

  Philip’s dark hair moved as he nodded along with her words. “Are you concerned about the wedding? Is that where all this is coming from? Your father said you were acting nervously.”

  “My father said that?” Priscilla did not even know her father paid that close attention to her. Philip gave her an inclination of his head to confirm his words to her. Priscilla sighed. “I must be if Father has noticed it. I do not mean to insult you, Your Grace, by being so nervous. I just do not know how not to be.”

  “I took no insult from it, I assure you,” Philip said with the same confidence that he seemed to approach everything with.

  How Priscilla admired his easy way with words and how he could be so relaxed at the notion of all of this. She whispered, “Do you have everything ready?”

  Philip laughed and to her surprise, he gave her nose a tap with his finger. She blinked her eyes as her nose smarted a bit from the tap. “I do not think it is proper for you to ask me that. However, to ease your mind, I shall tell you that I have everything well in hand. Everything is in order.”

  That did not relax Priscilla as much as she thought it would. “Do you like me?”

  “What an odd question,” Philip remarked. He gave her a concerned look. “Are you feeling quite well?”

  Priscilla waved off his question. “It seems a reasonable question to me.”

  Philip sighed and turned toward her. “I do like you, Miss Morton. Why I like you so much that I chose to marry you.”

  “Did you really though?” Priscilla asked. She noticed his eyes widen and she felt ashamed of her question. “I am sorry, Your Grace. It is just that I know this was all arranged for a long while. I would hate to think that you only agreed because you had to do so.”

  Philip shook his head. “I care for you, truly. I am left wondering if you care for me now.”

  “Of course I do,” Priscilla said as she rushed to reassure him. “I think of you as a friend, a dear friend. I hope that that turns into more.”

  He nodded, his green eyes sparkling with something akin to mischief. �
�Most marriages do not even start with that. I feel as if we are already ahead of the pack.”

  “I do hope so. As you have said before, it is possible for a deep affection to grow within the confines of marriage. Why my maid Gwen only met her husband a handful of times before they wed and she absolutely adores him now,” Priscilla said with a smile.

  “You talked to you maid of this?” Philip did not look as if he liked that at all.

  Priscilla hastily amended, “She has told me of her marriage, and I sought to seek her counsel about married life to ease my nerves.”

  “In the future, it might be better if you talk to someone more of your stature,” Philip said with a slight frown. “Your sister, perhaps?”

  Priscilla grimaced. She hated that everyone always assumed that she was good friends with her sister. “Yes, perhaps.” Priscilla did not have the heart to try and explain it all to her fiancé.

  Philip turned and continued their walk. Priscilla wished yet again that she felt more at ease around him. That would probably come with time.

  The one thing they had was time, at least. Yet, she could not help but wonder if perhaps things should come a little easier just once or twice. Why did everything have to be like pulling teeth when it came to talking with Philip?

  Priscilla thought back to Bridgitte. Perhaps her sister could help her to be able to communicate with Philip better. Bridgitte was better at keeping men interested than Priscilla was. She left the matter in the back of her mind as she finished her walk with Philip in companionable silence.

  She had already embarrassed herself enough for one visit. Surely Philip would turn tail any day now and run off? Priscilla knew that probably would not happen.

  If Philip was anything, he seemed committed to doing as his parents wished. He would honor the arrangement between their families. Priscilla pondered at the way she felt as she thought about that.

  She wondered if she would feel relieved if Philip canceled the wedding. No, she would feel ashamed. Priscilla assured herself that ashamed is all she would feel, but even she felt as if she was lying.

  They finished their walk and Philip left Priscilla in the good company of her mother. She sat down heavily and sighed. “Quite warm today,” Lady Chaplin remarked, obviously mistaking Priscilla’s sigh for fatigue.

  “Yes,” Priscilla agreed. “Mother, did you love Father before you married him?”

  “I am not even sure I love him now,” her mother quipped back with a laugh. Lady Chaplin’s face took on a serious tone as she looked at Priscilla’s face. “Is that what is bothering you lately?”

  Priscilla started to deny it but she did not have the heart. “Yes,” she admitted. “I like His Grace, but I feel as if I do not know him well enough to love him. What if we get married and never grow to love each other?”

  “You have known him since you were both children,” Lady Chaplin said. “Is that not knowing him enough?”

  Priscilla put her head in her hands. “I do not know. I just feel as if I do not know him at all. The boy I knew and the man I see before me are vastly different people in my mind.”

  “I see,” Lady Chaplin said, and to Priscilla’s surprise her tone implied she actually did understand. “To answer your earlier question, I did not truly love your father when we were wed. We grew to love one another. We had the benefit of growing up together. We thought it would be wonderful if you had the same thing.”

  “Why bother letting me go to Season then?” Priscilla had felt as if the choice had been yanked from her and now she looked to her mother for answers.

  Lady Chaplin folded her hands in her lap. “We wanted you to make your debut in society, but we also wanted you and His Grace to meet each other again as adults.” She gave Priscilla an apologetic look. “Perhaps we should have sat down and explained things to you beforehand so you knew what to expect.”

  Priscilla nodded. “What of Bridgitte?”

  “We thought she needed time to settle,” Lady Chaplin explained. “She is still very much a child in her behavior. We thought maybe a Season would temper her a bit. She does seem a bit jealous that you are to wed first.”

  Priscilla smiled at her mother. “I knew you could not be that oblivious to her.”

  Lady Chaplin’s shoulders lifted in a helpless gesture. “She will mature with time. After all, she has a wonderful big sister to look up to. Is there no chance you two might make up before the wedding? I fear at this rate she might not even consent to walk down the aisle as your maid of honor.”

  Priscilla bit her lip. She had tried letting Bridgitte stew for a few days and it had not helped. “I had hoped that my not apologising this time around would help her to see that she has to apologise too, but if it will make you happy I promise to try and make amends with her.”

  “You are such a good daughter,” Lady Chaplin said proudly as she pulled Priscilla into a warm hug. Priscilla soaked in the affection from her mother as it was rare these days to get a hug from the woman.

  When they broke their embrace, Priscilla gave her mother a smile. “I shall go to see about her.”

  She left her mother sitting in the garden and went into the house. However, she could not find her sister anywhere. Priscilla sat down grumpily in the library. Gwen found her there an hour later. “What are you doing hiding in here?”

  “I am not hiding,” Priscilla informed her. “I went to look for my sister earlier and could not find her.”

  Gwen frowned. “I think I saw her take one of the horses out for a ride.”

  “Just my luck that she takes up riding the day I want to speak with her.” Priscilla shrugged. “Well, actually, I guess it is more my mother’s wish that I speak with her than a genuine one of my own.”

  Gwen chided, “Thus why you are sitting here instead of continuing the hunt.”

  “Guilty,” Priscilla admitted. “But I did find a lovely book of poetry that is just like the kinds our governess used to read. I wonder if she is happy sometimes.”

  Gwen smiled. “I think she is working for a lovely family in Cheshire now.”

  “Lucky children,” Priscilla said wistfully. She sat there a moment longer before she pushed herself up. “I suppose I should continue looking for Bridgitte.”

  Gwen patted her bun of red hair as if to make sure it had not fallen. “What are you going to do? Chase her down on foot?”

  “Fine point,” Priscilla replied. “I am going to finish reading and catch her this evening.” She lifted her book pointedly.

  Gwen giggled. “You do that, Miss. Shall I fetch your tea in here then?”

  “That would be lovely. Thank you, Gwen,” Priscilla said with a smile over the top of her book. Gwen left with a bob of her head and Priscilla looked back at the book of poetry. She eyed the poetry and wondered what a love like the pages described must be like.

  It sounded almost painful, to be honest, and Priscilla had begun to wonder if perhaps it would be better not to experience a passion such as the book described. Its pages were filled with lovers aching, hearts shattered, and tears that stained the world. If that was love then life without it sounded like some paradise.

  Priscilla read until Gwen came back in with the tea tray, which she set down on a table next to Priscilla. “Now that smells heavenly,” Priscilla whispered as she took the cup of tea Gwen offered her.

  Gwen smiled as she offered Priscilla a lemon bar. “Your favourite,” she told Priscilla.

  “Cook’s lemon bars,” Priscilla said as she took the plate and breathed in the smell of the confection. “Oh, how angry Bridgitte will be when she realises that she missed tea with lemon bars.”

  Gwen nodded. “They are good even when the lemon bars are a few hours old, but they are nothing like freshly made ones.”