Captain Ashbrook’s face pulled into a scowl, and she braced herself for the forthcoming argument. But then his narrowed eyes widened and his shoulders straightened, and Tabby saw the ill-tempered expression shift into awareness. The next moment, the frown was safely tucked away, and all was right once more. It took no more than a few seconds, yet that display of self-control was a sight to behold.
Men did not change; either they were born good-tempered, like her father, or they were unable to rid themselves of their bad qualities, like her husband. They may manage a short-term alteration, but their true natures always won out. After years of learning that lesson in the most difficult of circumstances, Tabby had accepted that fact, but Captain Ashbrook was defying what experience had taught her. Certainly, she had witnessed a similar metamorphosis in Joshua when he had been wooing her, but it had been nothing more than an attempt to gain her favor and disappeared as easily as her father had warned her it would. But Captain Ashbrook was not trying to impress her or anyone else. Tabby did not know what to make of it.
And now she was gathering wool. It would not do to sit here, silently staring at the man.
Reaching for the stack of letters on the tray, Tabby offered them to Captain Ashbrook. “You have quite a pile of post today.”
But the captain simply dropped them on the growing paper mountain beside his bed.
“Perhaps that is the custom of sailors,” said Tabby, glancing at it, “but on land, we tend to open our letters, read them, and then write out a reply.”
Captain Ashbrook raised his eyebrows. “Strange custom, that.”
Tabby fought back another smile. “True. We are an odd bunch, but when in Rome, do as the Romans do, as they say,” she replied with a shrug.
Captain Ashbrook snickered, a smile teasing his lips. “If you must know, there is no point in reading them as I have no ability to respond.”
“That is odd logic,” said Tabby. “You have no interest in knowing what is being sent you?”
The captain fidgeted, shifting in his bed, and avoided her gaze, but Tabby recognized the signs. He was embarrassed. And frustrated, too, if she had to guess. No one appreciated having their shortcomings shoved in their face, and that was exactly what these piece of paper did to him. Pursing her lips, she glanced at the letters and for a brief moment, pictured what it would be like to receive correspondence from people she’d known in her former life. Hearing about things she longed to do but couldn’t.
Clearly, it would be painful for Captain Ashbrook to face his missives, but avoiding such things never helped hardships. However, Tabby allowed her previous question to lapse and addressed the concern he was willing to admit aloud.
“Have you considered using your left hand?” asked Tabby. “It is more than capable of holding a quill. With a little training, I am certain you could master it.” Her first instinct was to offer to act as his scribe, but a man in Captain Ashbrook’s position needed some semblance of independence. In this small way, he would be able to have a touch of freedom.
“My left?” he asked, turning that hand to examine it. “I have never tried it. Do you think it possible?”
“Why not?” she asked. “There are those who favor their left hand and are trained to use their right, so why not the other way around?”
Captain Ashbrook raised his eyebrows, glancing at Tabby, and she saw a faint light of hope in his gaze. “I have missed writing. I’ve kept a journal as long as I can remember, but I have not been able to add to it since...a while.”
Tabby allowed his pause to pass without comment, knowing full well to what he was referring. “I think we should get you out and about today. You have been cooped up far too long, and it would do you a world of good. I can fetch you some paper with which to practice, and you can start training your left hand out in the beauty of the garden.”
“Were you not cautioning me a fortnight ago to be more careful?”
“I am not suggesting you run into town,” said Tabby. “It is a lovely morning, and you could have your breakfast outside.”
“Outside?” Captain Ashbrook’s face looked remarkably like a society matron who had spilled tea on her dress during a morning call, but Tabby hid her smile far better this time.
“For being so foolhardy before, you are being surprisingly reticent now,” she said.
“I do not wish to repeat my previous mistake,” he said, a frown on his lips. “Besides, you should be celebrating that I am doing as everyone wishes.”
Before the gentleman could say another word, Tabby threw aside his bed covers. He reached for them, but she slapped his hands and retrieved his dressing gown. The captain sputtered and fought her, but he should have learned his lesson by now; Tabby would not be cast aside.
“Faint heart and all that,” said Tabby, maneuvering his legs and helping him upright. “Take courage, dear Captain. The garden is not as frightening as all that.”
Captain Ashbrook glared, but there was too much humor in his eyes to be particularly effective. “It is not the garden I fear.”
No, it wasn’t. Tabby knew his fear, but she would not say it aloud for she had learned her lesson with Joshua. Support and help, but do not shove; it was better to allow him to come to his own conclusions. Granted, Tabby was doing a fair amount of shoving to get him off the bed and into his dressing gown, but she sensed this was what he wanted and needed.
With his cane in his left hand, and Tabby gently supporting his right side, they stood together, allowing him a moment to get his equilibrium.
“You…” Captain Ashbrook’s voice faltered and a faint blush stole across his cheek.
“I shan’t let you fall, sir,” said Tabby.
The captain nodded, and Tabby knew she had guessed that particular worry correctly. She nodded in return and together they took a step. Captain Ashbrook made a tiny noise, which she suspected was a hidden groan, but he kept moving. Slow and rickety, they walked to the bedchamber door.
“Where all have you traveled?” asked Tabby.
Captain Ashbrook glanced at her from the corner of his eye as they stepped into the hallway.
“During your time in the navy. You must have seen a great many countries,” she clarified. His brow furrowed, and Tabby clearly saw his confusion at the choice of topic, but it was the exact type of thing that could take his mind off the effort of moving.
“Most parts of Britain and Europe. The coast of America and Canada. The East and West Indies. Africa. Australia. About anywhere our sovereign has an interest and a port, I have visited.”
The list was astonishing, yet he recited it with a casual tone as though traveling so extensively were a commonplace occurrence. When she told him such, he shrugged.
“It has been my life for almost fifteen years. It feels commonplace to me,” he said.
They reached the top of the stairs, and Tabby halted them for a moment to allow the captain a rest.
“And which was your favorite?” she asked.
“India.”
The answer came without thought and with such decisiveness that it drew Tabby’s eyebrows upwards.
“Why is that?”
Captain Ashbrook’s eyes drew off into the distance, as though he could see the place before him. “So many reasons, but primarily it is because the sights and wonders of that country are the greatest I have ever witnessed in my life. While there, I had the opportunity to visit what must be the grandest building in existence. White and gleaming, it stands above a river, surrounded by a series of red stone buildings so beautiful that they alone could rival many of the palaces of Europe. Yet they are nothing to compare to the structure they enclose.”
Tabby hung on his every word as they crept down the stairs.
“It was made entirely of white marble. A bright spot on the landscape that gleams in the morning light. And when you draw closer, you see an intricate web of decorations formed from semi-precious stones set into the sides. That alone is enough to instill any visitor with awe, but when
you go inside, every inch of the interior is embellished with similar inlays, filling the walls with flowers and vines as though you are stepping into an indoor garden fashioned from stone. It was overwhelming.”
Tabby tried to imagine it, but her mind could not call up such pictures. As a child, she had spent a fair amount of time searching atlases, scouring for information on foreign lands, but none of them ever came close to holding her attention as Captain Ashbrook’s words had.
“That sounds like a magnificent palace,” she said.
“It was no palace,” he replied. “It was a tomb for the favorite wife of a Mughal emperor.”
Tabby gaped for a brief moment before asking another question. Step after step, she pulled from him a vast array of stories about his travels and experiences aboard his ships, which did as much to entertain her as it distracted him. The trip from bedchamber to garden took nearly an hour, yet it felt like only a few minutes passed as they talked.
Chapter 10
Graham did not know how Mrs. Russell managed it. Right when he had thought to dig in his heels and stay abed, she had him bundled up and out the door. He couldn’t even be upset about the situation—except at his own weakness.
It burned his pride to admit that he had been avoiding testing out his limbs. After the last debacle, Graham found his determination wavering every time he had thought to, though pain had nothing to do with his reticence. It was fear alone that drove him to hide in his bedchamber; Graham could not face the possibility that his body might be worsening.
But then there was Mrs. Russell teasing and pushing him out the door and down the stairs, engaging him in such a lively conversation that Graham hardly noticed their journey to the garden. The lady was such a treat to talk to, and it was more than her ability to draw him from his melancholy. She made the world brighter, and Graham cherished his time with her.
He supposed he should be affronted at Mrs. Russell’s heavy-handedness, but as it had already improved his mood considerably, he knew better than to criticize her for taking the initiative. He rather enjoyed seeing her get her dander up. Besides, her fussing was different from Mina’s anxious fretting and far more agreeable.
Besides, the lady was right; it was a lovely morning and the sunshine felt good against his skin. It wasn’t until he sat out in the open air that he realized how much of a toll being sequestered inside had taken. Such a simple thing that had such a great effect on his bedraggled spirits. It was as though he could finally breathe again.
Casting a look at his hands, Graham was sickened to realize that the tan he had acquired during his years at sea had faded until his skin was as fair as the fops in London.
Mere moments later, Mrs. Russell had a blanket on the chair beside him, a fresh tray of treats on the table before him, and a pile of writing implements all perfectly situated for him to enjoy a morning out in nature.
“Thank you,” he said. Perhaps it was silly to thank a servant, but Mrs. Russell was more than that and deserved the acknowledgment.
The lady smiled, and something in Graham’s stomach twisted. Not the fearful wrenching he had felt many times before a battle or during a storm, but an energetic, elating sort of thing. It filled him, and in an instant, he found himself staring at her lips and imagining things that he should not think. Graham felt his face heat, and he swallowed, turning his gaze away from the warm highlights in her chocolate eyes.
That was an avenue best left unexplored for it was dangerous ground. Mrs. Russell was staff, and it was unwise to blur the boundaries. Besides, Graham would be at sea before long, and that was a poor life to give one’s wife. Yes, most of his men and fellow officers were married but having a wife and children one sees on rare occasions was not what Graham wanted. Two very good reasons why he could not allow himself to feel anything more than friendship for Mrs. Russell. She was an admirable woman, and he enjoyed her company, but there was no future between the two of them.
Even so, Graham found himself stopping her as she returned to the house.
“Did you need something else, sir?” she asked.
“You’re going to run off and abandon me like that?” he asked with a single raised eyebrow. “Dump me in the garden and return to whatever you were doing before I bothered you?”
She matched his eyebrow and said, “Yes.”
Graham laughed, and he flinched in anticipation of the various aches that had been plaguing him, but they did not come. Mrs. Russell came over to check on him, but he waved her off.
“I feel fine, truly,” he said. “That is the first time it has not hurt to laugh in a very long time.”
“That is what happens when you allow your body to heal rather than hacking it apart at every opportunity.” Coming from anyone else, Graham would have taken offense to the words, but Mrs. Russell’s tone held a touch of teasing that softened them.
“Please, sit with me,” he said, gesturing to an empty seat at the table.
Mrs. Russell sat and studied him. Graham was not sure what she was looking for, but he waited for her to speak. The lady had a forthrightness to her that did not allow her to remain silent for very long; he only needed to be patient.
“May I ask you a question that may upset you?”
Graham’s spine straightened, and his eyebrows rose. “That does sound ominous, but I will say yes if I am allowed you ask you a very personal and terribly gauche question first.”
“Ominous, indeed. Ask away, sir,” she said with a wide smile.
Graham folded his arms, watching Mrs. Russell carefully. “It is clear that you had a genteel upbringing, so how did you end up playing nursemaid to an ill-tempered naval captain?”
At Mrs. Russell’s flushed cheeks, Graham both wished the question unasked and felt grateful for the opportunity to ask it; it bothered him far too much to be ignored.
She ran her hands along her skirt and fidgeted for a moment before she spoke. “Over the last few years, my financial situation has grown very precarious. Eventually, it became necessary to go into service.”
Graham sensed a world of meaning beneath those words. There was far more to the story than she was telling, and what she had shared had not fully answered his question.
“Money is the reason anyone goes into service. That much was clear,” said Graham. “But you do not strike me as a spendthrift.”
Mrs. Russell’s eyes refused to meet his. “I am not a spendthrift, but I married one. That was enough. After a decade of marriage, we had naught but a few pounds to our name. The house and everything of value were sold to pay the creditors.”
Graham wanted to growl at the man. To beggar her like that was inexcusable. He wished he could pound the tar out of the late Mr. Russell and teach him how to be a proper gentleman who honors his responsibilities.
“You have no family or friends who might help you?” he asked. If Mina were in Mrs. Russell’s shoes, she would be amply provided for by her brothers.
Mrs. Russell shook her head. “My parents passed a few years ago and I have no siblings. The family and friends I have left have done what they were willing to do, and I am no longer willing to beg for their charity. I would rather work for my living than be a drain on another.”
Respect swelled in Graham’s heart, bringing with it something deeper that he tried to ignore, but it was impossible when faced with such a lady. Not many would view such demeaning employment as preferable to begging from the higher social circle, and Graham admired her determination to be something better than a leech.
“Now you must answer my question, sir,” she said, visibly pushing away her previous discomfort and meeting him face on. “Why are you so desperate to fix that which cannot be fixed? With work, your leg and arm will be serviceable, but the physicians and surgeons all agree that you will not be fit to return to the sea. Yet, you persist in it.”
Mrs. Russell had been right when she had predicted that he wouldn’t like her question. Temper flared in his heart, burning through him, and if it were not for
a concerted effort on his part, he would have bellowed at her with language that would be best left unheard by a lady.
Hearing it stated so baldly left him shaken. Others danced around it, but Mrs. Russell spoke with a directness that left no room for interpretation. Hearing his broken body described in such a manner struck him to his core. He was going to get better. He was going to be healed. With enough work, he would return to his ship. Yet, here she declared with complete confidence that it would never happen—that he was holding onto a dream that would never become a reality.
“Madam,” Graham said through gritted teeth, “I shall get better.”
Mrs. Russell’s gaze softened, her brow furrowing in concern. “A miracle may happen, yes, but Captain Ashbrook, it will not happen without divine intervention. Why are you insisting it will?”
“It must,” he said.
“That is not an answer,” she said. Lips pressed together, she spoke over him when he tried to rebut her. “I gave you an honest answer to your question, and I deserve an honest answer from you. Why are you so determined that you must get better?”
His eyes darted from her and scoured the garden as if they would provide the answer. He wanted to pace, but he was stuck in this dratted chair. And Mrs. Russell waited. She did deserve an answer, but to admit the truth felt too vulnerable.
Graham sighed, his body slackening as he accepted the inevitable. He would not welsh on a promise.
“I feel like half a man,” he said. “I have always been healthy and strong, and now I cannot go a few steps without someone half carrying me about. I cannot write or even read because I cannot hold the book and turn the pages at the same time. That alone would be enough, but there is more to it.”
He took a breath, steeling himself to continue. “This injury has stolen away everything I love. The navy is more than my income. It is my life. My passion. Outside of my family, the sea is the most important thing to me, and to accept that I cannot be healed is to accept that it is gone forever.”
Graham’s heart sunk in his chest with each word, and he rubbed at his face. He would not break. Things may be bleak, but Graham would not allow himself to fall to pieces. He may be a pathetic shell of a man who was of no use to anyone, but he could do that much.
A True Gentleman (Regency Love Book 2) Page 8
