A Marquess' Miraculous Transformation: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Abigail Agar

  Believing the doctor to be foolish, Ronan decided to try it there and then. With just the slightest motion, he shifted his leg …

  And promptly let out a groan.

  It was far more painful than he thought it would have been. Not only that, but there was a look upon the doctor’s face that bothered him. It was clear that the doctor felt a small sense of glee at seeing this. As if he took pleasure in the wound to Ronan’s pride.

  “It is not going to be a swift thing to master,” the doctor said, glancing at Miss Philips as if to warn her.

  “Evidently,” he replied, still feeling the sharp soreness.

  “Nevertheless, I expect you to do this three times per day with each leg. It is important that you continue to try and move them, or the muscle is going to weaken,” he said.

  “These are my choices? Allow myself to become even weaker or to have that pain three times per day?” he asked.

  “Yes, those are your choices,” the doctor said.

  For a moment, he thought that it was better to give up. Even if he was weak now, he could regain his strength with time, could he not? Surely there was a better future that lay ahead in which he might be stronger.

  Yet, he was determined. He would still manage to make this work. Ronan was determined that he would not allow his circumstances to get the best of him. He was going to prove that he was more than capable of recovery.

  “Very well. I shall devote myself to this exercise,” he said.

  “I am glad to hear it,” the doctor said.

  Ronan looked over to Miss Philips, who was still standing there patiently.

  “Have you anything to add?” Ronan asked her.

  The doctor turned to her and considered her for a moment. It appeared as though he had only just registered that she might be the one they had spoken of previously.

  “Ah, are you the maid with medical knowledge?” he asked.

  “A little,” she replied.

  “You look familiar,” the doctor said.

  Miss Philips nervously looked away from him. Instead, she grabbed hold of the bandages that she was going to change for Ronan.

  “It appears that I have run out of the salve in here. I shall be just a moment,” she said, departing from the room in a hurry. Ronan saw the salve in the bottom of the supply basket and was quite certain that she had seen it as well.

  “Interesting,” the doctor said.

  “What is?” he asked.

  “I could swear that I have seen that young lady before. In fact, I know I have. She is very familiar to me. But not as a maid. She is important, somehow. Oh, why can I not remember her?” the doctor asked, frustrated by his failing memory.

  “I cannot say how you know her, but she has claimed that her father was a doctor,” Ronan said.

  “Really? What is her name?” he asked.

  “Miss Philips,” Ronan answered.

  Recognition lit up the doctor’s face.

  “Of course! Now I recall. How could I have forgotten? She is the daughter of Doctor Matthew Philips. He is a very good man of medicine. Was, I mean. He was a very good man of medicine. Sadly, he passed away just a short time ago. Perhaps a little over a year?” the doctor said.

  Ronan was instantly surprised. He had not believed that it was true. For some reason, he had been certain that Miss Philips was making up her story, trying to garner sympathy or to make herself appear as more important than she was in society. But now, it was being confirmed.

  “You mean that she really, truly, is the daughter of a skilled man? A doctor? She was telling the truth?” he asked.

  The doctor looked at him curiously.

  “You doubted that she was being honest with you about it?” he asked.

  “Well, she is simply a maid. It would stand to reason that she only wanted attention or wanted to seem important,” he said.

  The doctor laughed bitterly and shook his head.

  “If that is how you view those who pass you by in this world, I am glad that we see the world from different places. Here we are, discussing a lovely young woman who formerly had a position, a young woman who my own nephew was interested in courting—along with other lads—and you see her only as a simple maid who would be more inclined to lie than tell the truth,” he said.

  Ronan felt guilty at once. The doctor was right. Miss Philips was a lovely young lady, and he saw her only for the station she possessed. He believed her to be something less than he merely because she worked in the home, whereas he lived in it.

  Was he really so bad as everyone around him believed him to be? There had to be a reason they were constantly scolding him for his behaviour. Not only that, but that sense of self-disappointment was growing greater by the day, and he had begun to realize that he was no longer happy in his own character.

  Indeed, perhaps something needed to change.

  Aside from that, he was impressed to learn that Miss Philips really did have a well-respected father. She might have even known a thing or two of the balls and excitement of society. Such a shame it was that she was not given more opportunity to enjoy them.

  Later in the day, when the doctor had gone, and Miss Philips had returned to tend his wounds, Harold returned to visit Ronan. He was glad to see his dear friend, happy that he would not be forced to spend another afternoon utterly alone.

  “You are willing to come by and see me despite my horrid behaviour these past weeks?” he asked.

  “So, you finally admit it?” Harold asked.

  “Indeed, I fear that I must concede. I have been rather unpleasant. I am sorry for having acted so vainly. I know that you and others were simply trying to assist me, and I did nothing but cause grief to you all,” he confessed.

  “It is true, but I am surprised that you are so freely admitting it. I had imagined I would find you even more bitter than the last time I was here,” Harold said.

  “I worried that you may not be willing to come back because of my moods. You were quite disapproving,” Ronan reasoned.

  “Indeed, I was. I still am. But I know that you are a good man, and you will ensure that you change what needs to be changed,” Harold said.

  Ronan paused. He had not expected a statement like this. What exactly needed to be changed? What had he ever done in the past that led Harold to believe this?

  “I fear that I do not understand,” he said, adding another confession.

  Harold smiled at him and gave a nod.

  “I know. What I meant to say is that I have always believed that you would be the sort who could change. I cannot say why. There is just something about you, my friend. I have faith that you will grow. I always have,” Harold said.

  Ronan took a deep breath, trying to settle this information in his mind. Essentially, Harold was saying that he could see the potential for decency in Ronan—even if he did not find him decent now. It was an insult, but also quite complimentary. And it required Ronan to admit that he needed to change.

  “Anyway, what has led to this particular acknowledgement of your character?” Harold asked him.

  “I suppose I recognized that I had not been overly kind to my new maid,” he said.

  “Oh? The pretty one? What did you do to her?” Harold asked.

  “Nothing terrible. I was rude. But I was rude repeatedly, and I also made quite a few assumptions. The doctor pointed out how wrong they were,” he said.

  “The doctor?” Harold asked.

  “Yes. As it happens, the maid really is the daughter of a skilled doctor who passed away over a year ago. She had a position in society, and she knows a good deal about medicine for a young woman,” he said.

  “Is that so?” Harold asked.

  “It is. I am astonished. Who would have thought that she would be so intriguing? Honestly, I never would have imagined that she was someone with so many capabilities or that she had a past in which she was involved with society,” he said.

  Harold grinned at him.

  “Oh? You did not?” he asked.<
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  “No, why?” Ronan asked.

  “Nothing. It is only that I see something in your eye. A spark, perhaps,” Harold said.

  Ronan knew precisely what his friend was trying to imply, but he had no desire for games or acknowledging anything so foolish. The last thing he wanted was to have some sort of relationship with this young woman. Yes, she was beautiful, and he found her history rather impressive and intriguing, but she was still just a maid.

  “Enough, Harold. You know that I am not going to settle for someone less than me,” he said.

  “And there you are again,” Harold said, looking disappointed.

  Yes, he had made the same mistake of valuing himself over another. But, perhaps, that was just how he was. Perhaps Ronan would have to accept that he was always going to be the sort of man who saw the best of himself and the worst of others. It was not so bad, was it?

  Everyone liked to see themselves in a positive light, Harold included. So, why was it suddenly a problem when Ronan did it?

  “I was only saying that I do not have an interest in her,” he said by way of denying the insinuation.

  But Ronan realized at that moment that there really was something intriguing about Miss Philips.

  Chapter 7

  Lavender had been busy with her usual duties. She had already changed the marquess’ bandages, but now she needed to help him with his first exercises of the day.

  He was quite clearly annoyed about having to do them. It was evident that he was going to be in a great deal of pain, but he made it clear that he was willing, nevertheless. They had been doing the exercises for four days now, and he was getting better. Each day, morning, afternoon, and evening, he would try to move each leg just a small fraction.

  With every attempt, the effort showed in his face. Lavender could tell that he was in quite terrible pain even now. Still, she had to push him.

  “You can do it. Just a little more,” she said as his foot tilted away rather than actually moving the leg in that direction.

  “It is difficult,” he said.

  “Yes, I know, but you agreed to do this because it is going to help you recover. You must look after yourself,” she said.

  The marquess nodded, not looking directly at Lavender, and focused on moving his leg.

  Although he was still hurt and in pain, she had noted a definite shift in his demeanour. No longer was he as angry and bitter as he had been before, but he was growing to be more understanding. She could hardly call him kind, but at least he was not mocking her with such constancy.

  “Excellent. Keep going. I know that you can do this. It may hurt now but think of the freedom you shall experience with time. Think of how wonderful it will be when you are out and about, no longer having to reside in this bed,” Lavender said.

  “I believe you have found the key to motivating me,” he grunted.

  Finally, at last, he managed to move the leg. It was just a small amount, certainly no more than he had done before, but it was something.

  However, she could see that his pain was intense. In fact, there was something more than the past few days. It appeared as though he was in a true agony.

  “Lord Beckman, are you all right?” Lavender asked.

  He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, shifting his torso as if to ease the pain.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “It … hurts,” he said.

  “Your leg?” she asked.

  “Y-yes. Very badly. It … it hurts,” he said again, through a staccato agony.

  At once, she recognized that she needed to do something. He was not going to be all right if she did not act quickly.

  “Give me a few moments. I know that you are in pain, but I must prepare something to help ease it. I shall try not to be long, but it may take a bit of time,” she said.

  “G-go,” he told her.

  With that, she departed from the room and rushed to her own bedroom. She quickly gathered ingredients, seeing what it was she needed. A little bit of willow bark and heavy oil to begin with.

  From there, Lavender went to the kitchen. She grabbed a couple of pots and pans and started to make her concoctions.

  “Wot are you doing wif all of those?” the cook asked in her cockney accent.

  “The marquess. He is in a great deal of pain. I must make something to ease his pain. A tonic—if you do not mind handing me the brandy—and an oil,” she said.

  “’Ere you go,” the cook said, handing over the brandy.

  “Thank you,” Lavender replied. She started to pour the brandy into a cup, filling it about halfway. She would finish it once she got the rest started.

  The cook watched her as she went about her work. First, she put a bit of the oil into the smallest pot. She allowed it to warm but not to get too hot. The last thing she wanted was for it to boil over. It would only destroy the valuable properties she needed now.

  Then, she added a few chunks of the willow bark. Lavender stirred it into the pot, hoping that it would not get too hot and that the oil would be what she needed it to be.

  As the oil continued to suck the benefits from the willow bark, she moved on to finishing the tonic that he could drink.

  “You know exactly wot you’re doing there, don’tcha?” the cook asked.

  “I do. I have had good practice in making these things,” she replied.

  “Is that so? How did you learn it all?” the cook asked.

  “My father,” Lavender replied. “He was a doctor, and he knew how to make all of his own concoctions for improving the health of others.”

  “And you learned the gift?” the cook asked.

  “I make every effort. But, I am not half so skilled as he was. He was a learned man, having studied in university. Obviously, I have done no such thing,” she said, stirring the oil quickly before rushing back to put a few sprigs of mint in the tonic to improve the taste.

  “Brandy and mint? I would never have put that combination together,” the cook said.

  “Most would not. But there are other flavours in this that would not make any man happy, and I am trying to avoid the disaster that would occur if our marquess were forced to drink something like these,” she said.

  “Right, I see that,” the cook said, nodding in understanding.

  Lavender rushed about, trying to find each item she needed without taking too long. She knew that the marquess was still back in the room, rolling around in agony and trying to overcome his pain. However long all of this took her, it was leaving him on his own there in pain.

  She recognized that he was most likely fighting off the pain through gritted teeth at the moment, but she could not bear to force him to wait much longer. After all, every moment of pain was only going to leave him increasingly upset.

  With the tonic completed, she went back to the oil and strained it, so no bark was left.

  She needed to allow it to cool. It was too hot, and she would not be able to use it at once. But it took only a matter of ten minutes to get it to a cooler temperature. From there, Lavender looked at a loaf of bread that the cook had just pulled from the oven.