A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)

“It’s too horrible to contemplate.”


“If it was apoplexy,” Miss Osborne said quietly, “and it happened in his sleep … he likely suffered no pain.”

“That’s kind of you to say, dear. But if you’ll forgive me for saying so, I would feel more assured if that came from his physician.”

“She is a physician,” Joss said.

“What Captain Grayson means to say,” Miss Osborne explained, sparing Joss only the briefest of glances, “is that I’ve received a great deal of medical training and experience by virtue of being a doctor’s daughter. But what I tell you now, I learned as a child. My mother suffered an apoplexy when I was a girl—a severe one. She survived, but the attack left her paralyzed and bedridden, unable to walk or speak. Over the next year, she suffered many spells.” She swallowed hard before continuing. “I always sat with her, you see, while my father was working. I would read aloud, work my lessons, spoon her tea and broth. Her fits were difficult to even recognize at first. It almost looked as though she were asleep, in the midst of a dream. She would tremble a bit. Her breathing went agitated, and her eyelids fluttered against her cheeks. Afterward, she would be weakened and perhaps a bit scared, but not in pain. Never in pain.”

No one spoke. Toby was certain it was because they were all thinking the same, unspeakable thing. Thank God Mr. Yorke had gone quickly and not remained clinging to life in a useless, wasting shell. What a tragedy that would have been—not just for Yorke to live through, but for his mother to witness. To imagine a young girl, forced to become caretaker to her own parent

…

No, no one had much to say to that.

“He didn’t suffer, then?” Lady Aldridge asked weakly. “You’re certain?”

“Yes,” Miss Osborne answered, her voice growing warm and soft. “I was there with my mother, when she died. She went peacefully.”

“I am glad of it, for her sake. And yours.”

“Mother.” A voice from the periphery pierced their bubble of silence. “Mother, I’m here.”

Heads lifted. Augusta had arrived, bringing with her a fresh reserve of womanly efficiency. Toby absorbed the accompanying wave of relief. He gratefully moved aside, offering his sister the seat beside their mother.

“Oh, Augusta.” The older woman slid from Miss Osborne’s shoulder to meet the waiting embrace of her daughter. “Augusta, I loved him.”

Augusta soothed her, with soft touches and soft words. Mumbling some excuse, Miss Osborne bolted from the room. A heartbeat later, Joss followed her, leaving Reginald and Jeremy to make strained conversation amongst themselves.

And Toby just stood there, alone.

Hetta lurched from the room, pausing in the foyer to borrow strength from the carved walnut banister. Clinging to it with both hands, she bowed her head to her sleeve and wept. Noisily. She wished she could have made it a bit further away before breaking down, rather than dissolving in tears six feet from the parlor door. She wished the emotion tearing her to pieces were a more altruistic empathy for Lady Aldridge in her time of mourning, or grief for her own long-dead mother—but it wasn’t. It was envy, mixed with fear. Envy for anyone who knew the comfort of lasting affection. Fear that she would live her whole life and grow into an old woman with no one to mourn.

And no one to mourn her.

Strong hands gripped her shoulders. Every muscle in her body tensed.

“Go away,” she choked out, without lifting her head from her sleeve. She didn’t need to look up. She knew who it was.

“No,” came the predictably contrarian reply. “No, you need to be held. I’m going to hold you.”

There was no fight left in her, no more pride in the way. A word, an embrace—whatever scrap of affection he offered her, she would gratefully accept. The strong hands turned her away from the banister, and then strong arms folded her into his chest.

She burrowed her face into his coat and sobbed. “Oh, Joss.”

“Shhh. It’s all right.”

His hand went to her hair, stroking and soothing. As no one had soothed her in a very long time, since before her mother took ill. He released her name as a deep, soulful sigh, and his whole body relaxed, making a soft place for her. She breathed deeply, too, inhaling the comforting scents of clean linen and masculine spice.

He murmured comforting words as she wept, and Hetta tried desperately to stem the flow of her tears, so she might hear them.

“What you said to Lady Aldridge … it was brave of you, Hetta. I know it wasn’t easy, but you gave her some peace.”

She sobbed again, and he held her tight.