Chapter Forty
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James paced nervously outside the door to Daphne’s bedchamber. He knew she had arrived and felt certain she was inside. Did she approve of all he’d done in there? Had he presumed too much? Made a mull of the entire thing?
He’d come upon an embroidered pillow in a shop window in Coventry during his journey from London. The sparrows had made him think of her. He hadn’t intended to do anything beyond leave it in her bedchamber, thinking perhaps it would bring a smile to her face when she arrived.
His first day in Shropshire, he’d slipped into Daphne’s room and stopped dead in his tracks.
He’d seen servants’ quarters and tenant houses that surpassed the refinement of her bedchamber.
Afraid his work in Shropshire would prove more arduous than he’d been led to expect, James had peeked inside all of the family rooms.
The rest of the house proved unexceptional—elegance mingled with practicality, modernity alongside the traditional. Only Daphne’s private quarters still bore the mark of aching poverty. Why had the room never been refurbished? How could her family have allowed such a thing?
As he’d stood there surveying the badly worn furniture and threadbare linens in her room, he had experienced a moment of pure inspiration.
Her brother had insisted she didn’t feel safe or secure or valued.
What lady would, living in surroundings so starkly inferior to that of her family members’, a constant reminder of years of struggle?
“Please, don’t let her hate it,” he whispered, hoping the heavens were listening.
Divine intervention seemed his only chance of winning Daphne’s heart.
“Or if she does hate it, let her not hate me.” He opted to cover all possibilities, lest providence prove mischievous.
“And if the bedchamber itself comes up short, at least let the apothecary cabinet meet with her approval.”
He’d gladly sold his watch and diamond stickpin to pay for the cabinet, knowing on sight it would mean the world to his beloved. He only hoped he hadn’t been misled, that it truly was the fortuitous find he thought it was.
The doorknob turned. James attempted to project an air of casualness. How ridiculous he would seem hovering around her door. He watched it open, his nerves on edge.
The sight of his Daphne after two weeks’ separation fairly stole his breath. Her quiet beauty might escape the notice of Society, its fascination set on all things gaudy and loud, but he could not imagine any lady’s loveliness striking him with greater force.
His appearance seemed to cause more surprise for her than anything else. “James.”
Questions flitted through her eyes, though she did not speak any of them aloud. If she were too shy to ask about the room outright and he lacked the gumption to broach the subject himself, they might very well remain in the corridor indefinitely, discussing inane topics and fretting uncomfortably.
He simply needed to draw himself up, quit acting like a child yet in leading strings, and jump in. “Daphne—”
His words ended abruptly just as her head snapped in the direction of a hacking, rasping cough. James had come to know that sound well during his short time in Shropshire.
Daphne looked back at him, worry and pain written all over her face. “That is my father, isn’t it?”
James nodded.
She looked again in the direction of her father’s bedchamber even as another cough echoed from within its walls. Her brow knit with worry, grief filling her posture. “My papa is really going to die.”
He could not be blamed for what he did next—any gentleman with half a heart would have been powerless to do anything else. He took her in his arms, silently and gently holding her.
He could offer no words to contradict her assertion. Mr. Lancaster was indeed going to die. Even to James’s untrained eye that much was obvious. The local physician doubted he would last the remainder of the summer.
James had made a point of visiting the ailing man a few times each day.
Though he doubted anything he said penetrated the fog that shrouded Mr. Lancaster’s mind, James kept him informed of his work and efforts around the estate.
He meant it as a show of respect for the father of the lady he loved and a gesture of recognition of the capable person the man had once been.
In the midst of Mr. Lancaster’s often indecipherable mutterings, James had learned some invaluable things.
He’d heard snippets of Mr. Lancaster’s childhood visits to the Shropshire estate, a small, unentailed property his father had eventually left him.
The recounting gave James a better understanding of the land’s history and prior uses.
Far more valuable, though, was the insight he’d gained into the father who had unknowingly broken his little girl’s heart.
What he’d learned had softened James’s feelings toward the man.
“Would you like to go see him?” he whispered to Daphne, still safe in the circle of his arms.
He felt her shake her head even before he heard her refusal. “I’ll go with the others. Later. I don’t—I’ll wait.”
“I think you should look in on him, Daphne.”
“He won’t even remember me.” The slightest catch in her voice revealed the pain she felt.
“He will not recognize you,” James said, “but I promise he does remember you.”
She looked up at him. “He did not remember me even when I lived here, before his senility grew so pointed.”
James gently cupped her face in his hand. The heartbreak he heard in her words caused a matching twinge in his own chest. How lonely she must have been growing up. “You should see him, my dear.”
“I do not think I could bear it.” Her face momentarily crumpled.
“I will come with you,” he said. “You don’t need to face this alone.”
“Will you hold my hand?”
Was this even a question? “Of course.”
With the cloak of bravery he had come to associate with her wrapped firmly around her once more, Daphne took a breath and walked in the direction of her father’s chamber, her shaking hand held firmly in James’s.
He pushed the door open. Daphne’s grip grew tighter as they stepped inside.
The room was kept somewhat dim, though not overly so.
The nurse who looked after Mr. Lancaster was a capable and hardworking woman who kept the room tidy and well aired.
Unlike far too many sickrooms, the stench of illness did not hang heavy and stale about them.
Mr. Lancaster’s valet took pains with the man’s appearance, though his employer could not possibly realize nor value the service.
Still, the efforts at maintaining the gentleman’s dignity spoke volumes of the two servants’ human kindness.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ashton,” James greeted the nurse, who had turned from her tidying at the sound of their entrance. “Miss Lancaster has come to look in on her father.”
Mrs. Ashton nodded and smiled, the look one of approval and empathy. She no doubt realized better than anyone how little time remained for such visits.
“I do not know if I can do this,” Daphne whispered, pulling so close to him their arms brushed.
“I will be right here with you, dear.” How different being her support and defender felt from every other time he’d been required to play that role. She did not demand it of him, and yet her sincere gratitude could not be doubted.
Daphne was silent as they reached the bed in which her father had spent every moment of the past few months. James squeezed her hand, hoping to remind her that she did not face this ordeal alone.
“Good afternoon,” James said upon realizing Mr. Lancaster was awake.
His thin face turned in their direction. Every breath wheezed out of him slowly and painstakingly. Daphne did not visibly react, though James felt certain her father’s deteriorated condition affected her.
Mr. Lancaster’s eyes narrowed, a look of momentary confusion in their depths. Then he nodded a greeting. “Good day to you, Robert.” He pulled in a rattling breath.
“Robert?” Daphne whispered.
James leaned a bit closer to her and explained in a low voice. “I understand that is his brother’s name.”
Her eyes met his, worried and sad. “He thinks you are my Uncle Robert?”
“He often thinks Mrs. Ashton is his mother.” James wanted Daphne to understand that any lack of recognition had nothing to do with her or her father’s valuation of her but with the state of his mind.
“Thought I’d go riding today.” Mr. Lancaster’s raspy voice brought their attention back to him.
“Do you mind if I introduce you to a pretty young lady before you head to the stables?” James asked. He’d learned during his first visits to Mr. Lancaster that it was best to go along with whatever mental wanderings seized the gentleman.
“Always time for a pretty girl.” Mr. Lancaster’s declaration preceded a bout of deep, continual coughing.
The usually stalwart Daphne stood in obvious distress, her eyes bleak. James rubbed her upper back with his free hand.
After sipping from the cup Mrs. Ashton pressed to his lips and muttering a very childlike “Thank you, Mama,” Mr. Lancaster turned his attention back to James and Daphne. “Halloo, Robert,” he said, having forgotten he’d addressed him already. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
James didn’t reply. Mr. Lancaster’s attention was fixed on his daughter, though he likely had no idea who she really was.
“She looks like my Daphne,” Mr. Lancaster said in an offhand manner.
“Does she now?” James shifted his hand to Daphne’s far shoulder, as near to an embrace as he’d allow himself in company.
“A smart girl, my Daphne.” Mr. Lancaster’s words came out breathy as he struggled to fill his lungs once more. “Just a little thing, with quite a good head on her shoulders.”
“I’ve heard that about her,” James answered. Beside him, Daphne had grown pale, her eyes fixed on her father.
“Just like her mother.” Mr. Lancaster nodded slowly, gaze wandering about. “Pretty but quick, with wit and brains.” His voice grew ever quieter. “Like her mother.”